


441. duct-taped heart

by piggy09



Series: The Sestre Daily Drabble Project [60]
Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Gen, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 18:26:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7903081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piggy09/pseuds/piggy09
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not like it hurts. The scar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	441. duct-taped heart

Helena hadn’t meant to show her.

It wasn’t supposed to happen. Sarah was never supposed to know, because Sarah had forgotten about her gun and her bullet and Helena wanted to forget too. She wanted that so much: forgetting.

And it was easy! You wear a shirt and there, done. You don’t look in the mirror when you change or when you bathe. Like it doesn’t exist, that knot of scar tissue on your chest – that place where a bullet nestled, made your skin bloom. Not real. Not even there. Just blank skin, like how Cosima knows Helena’s back. Shh, shh, there is nothing even there.

It was stupid of her, probably, to borrow brother- _sestra_ Felix’s shower. But she likes the shower! And she likes the bathtub, because the Hendrixes always mutter dark things about Water Bills when Helena uses their bathtub for too long but Felix _never_ does that. So she uses Felix’s bathtub, and Felix’s shower. She likes the way Felix’s clothes smell. She likes his raggedy towels.

And she is stepping out of the tub with a towel tugging low across her chest and Sarah opens the door.

Her eyes go there first. Right there. Like a tug, like a bul—

Like they know. And then her eyes go back up. And then she stumbles, falters. Helena tugs the towel up higher, thinks: _you were never supposed to know_.

“Sorry,” Sarah says. The word bloats. It grows feet, and eyes to stare at Helena with. It stands in the middle of the room and does not move.

“For not knocking.” Those words don’t help. Helena’s eyes go down to the floor, where they stand next to that big horrible _sorry_. All of Sarah’s words blink-blinking at Helena now.

“It’s okay,” Helena says quietly. Like needles in balloon animals, and Sarah’s words sigh and go away. Helena’s shoulders droop; she watches Sarah’s shoulders do the same (the same). “You did not think I would…”

Oh, no, that does not help at all. Helena wants to throw her hands up but that would drop the towel, and – all she can think about is the sunburst-scar on her stomach. There are other things she should worry about, probably, but that is all that she considers. She can feel her heartbeat in both lumps of dead skin.

She bites the inside of her lip, once, hard, and then lets the words clatter off her tongue: “It doesn’t hurt. It’s okay, Sarah.”

Wrong answer, probably. Sarah’s eyes close tight and she finally steps all the way in the room, pulls Felix’s door closed with a rattle- _bang!_ of sound. Her arms fold across her chest. Covering her own scar. If she had scars. Which she doesn’t. Because Helena has never hurt her like that.

(Because Sarah has never deserved it.)

“You had to,” Helena says weakly. “But I’m better now.” All those words are soft things but they make Helena feel nauseous, like they’re wrong. But there’s nothing wrong in them! They’re true. Sarah had to. Helena is better now. End of story – it has to be the end of the story, there can’t be any more story or Helena will sit down on the ground and never be able to get back up.

“Helena,” Sarah says, voice—

…

not _bleeding_. Another word besides bleeding. That’s what Sarah’s voice is doing.

“Sarah,” Helena says. Almost whispers. “Please. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Part of her – sick, sad, scared – wants Sarah to say _well maybe I do_. But that’s not what most of her wants. Only part of her. A sick sad scared part of her. Most of her isn’t any of those things anymore.

But Sarah doesn’t say _we should talk about it, this, us_. Her eyes bloom some kicked-dog relief. Helena tugs the towel closer to her chest, shivers, drips. She slowly starts backing towards her pile of clothes. Sarah lets her.

“It’s okay,” Sarah almost-whispers, and the word _okay_ turns up at the end. Like a question. Like she wants Helena to tell her, which she probably does.

“Yes,” Helena says. And she’s sick and sad and scared but all of those things are fine as long as they are her things, and not Sarah’s.

“Okay,” Sarah says. And she lets Helena go.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please kudos + comment if you enjoyed!


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